


Just-in-Case Letters

by MachaSWicket



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Logan's just-in-case letters from his first three deployments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deployment One:  January 17, 2013

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own none of these guys.
> 
> THANKS to Katelinnea for reading this even when she wanted to kill me for it instead. :)

**January 17, 2013**

Hey, Trina--

I’m not entirely sure you’re aware of this, what with all the molly and vodka fuzzy-ing up your brain, but I’m in the Navy. Yes, the actual Navy, with the boats and the guns and everything.

In fact, I’m currently on a boat (a ship, actually, but I won’t bother to explain the distinction) on my first deployment. We’ll be deployed about five months, and while I can’t tell anyone where we’re actually going, apparently it’s all the rage to write these really depressing just in case I die letters to your loved ones. Or, lacking loved ones, to your family. 

So here you go, sis. If I die, you’re my next of kin. Try not to put all the money up your nose.

Yours from eternal hellfire,  
LTJG Logan Echolls

 

**January 17, 2013**

Dick--

I really hope you don’t ever get this letter, but writing my in-case-I-die-on-this-deployment letter to Trina was a little bit unsatisfying. And outside of Trina, I figure the only people who care if I kick off this mortal coil are you and your ex-sister-in-law. 

Of course, I’m not entirely sure what these letters are supposed to say. 

Maybe just… thanks? So, yeah, thanks for having my back, Dick. As a symbol of my affection, I’m leaving you my surfboard, and all my games that you don’t have already -- but please send the duplicates and the gaming systems to Heather. She’s at a prep school in San Francisco these days, and will be headed to Stanford in the fall.

Have a good life, Dick.  
Logan

 

**January 17, 2013**

Dear Heather--

Thanks again for sending flowers (smartass) and Warhawk for my flight school graduation - it probably shouldn’t be fun to shoot missiles at fighter planes, all things considered, but I’ve always been a masochist. You’re pretty thoughtful, kid, you know that? (Yes, you’re not a kid anymore, blah, blah, blah, tell that story walking -- you’ll pretty much always be a pain-in-the-ass eleven-year-old to me.)

I’m writing this from the aircraft carrier, somewhere in the ocean (how’s that for vague -- I am somewhere in the 2/3 of the earth covered by water). We’re heading for a pretty serious location for my first deployment, and I don’t know whether it’s healthy that the thought excites me. But I mean, what’s the point of the endless, meticulous, and really advanced training if I don’t actually get to do some good, protective flying with my plane? And where better than a combat zone? 

Still, I sincerely hope you never have to read this letter, because if you read it, that means something has gone pretty wrong out here and I’m either missing or dead. It’s kind of a sobering thought (yes, I’m sober right now, zip it, young lady). You’ve seen me at some pretty shitty times in my life, but I’m a lot more stable these days. I know you know that (or at least you say you know that), but in case the worst happens, I want you to know how much you helped kick my ass back into shape. Not just during The Great Depression Incident of 2007, but also just making me be accountable for something. Even something as seemingly inconsequential as our weekly games -- it really helped, Heather. So thanks.

But can I ask one last favor? Don’t let Trina plan my funeral -- TMZ is not invited.

Love ya, kid,  
Logan


	2. Deployment One:  March 4, 2013

**March 4, 2013**

Dear Veronica--

First, I apologize for this letter. I’ve tried really hard to respect your decision to make a clean break with Neptune. Well, a clean break except for Wallace. And Mac. Probably Weevil, too. So maybe it’s your clean break with me that I’ve tried to respect. But since you probably won’t ever get this, I feel kind of okay going against your implicit wish never to hear from me again.

Second, some background, in case your clean break included instructions to all your people back in Neptune not to keep you up to date on me: I joined the Navy. No, I didn’t get drummed out for insubordination or wash out for lack of talent or aptitude. I’m a Navy officer and a pilot, currently a Lieutenant Junior Grade deployed with a carrier battle group in a pretty shitty place. And when you’re deployed, you’re supposed to write letters like these -- in-case-I-die letters. Uplifting thought, right? 

Honestly, I thought they were kind of bullshit until I flew through a hail of anti-aircraft fire and then had a couple surface-to-air missiles lobbed in my direction. Nothing brings clarity as quickly as the sound of a bomb acquiring you as a target. So while I’m sorry to interrupt your life with this, if you have received this letter, the good news is I won’t ever be able to interrupt it again. I’ll just write my piece, and trust that you’ll feel badly enough about my death to read it with an open mind. Please give me that much, Veronica.

Now that all the preliminaries are out of the way: I’m writing to apologize. For a lot of things, including the reserves of hurt feelings and anger I clearly still have towards you. (I sincerely hope I got over that between writing this and whatever happened to kill me -- I wouldn’t want to go to my [possibly watery] grave angry with you, no matter what happened between us six years ago.) I never wanted things with us to end the way they did, without any attempts to get to a better place. Before any of the rest of it, you were one of my best and oldest friends. And while I’m not sure if I could’ve handled being just your friend sophomore year at Hearst, I always just assumed we’d find our way back to being something to each other eventually. Until you got the hell out of Dodge and went incommunicado, which I guess I should’ve expected. I should be numb to abandonment by now, huh?

I’m not blaming you for leaving. I just wish I could’ve talked to you afterwards because, Veronica, you were right about a lot of it. But not all of it. I’m not the shithead you used to think I was -- the eternal fuckup, the amoral jackass. I may have been in high school, for a lot of reasons that I’m not going to get into here, but I’m not that guy anymore. The Navy thinks enough of me to let me fly an 80 million dollar plane, so I’ve got that going for me.

Look, I was never good enough for you, and I’m painfully aware of that. I could never live up to your (unrealistic?) expectations of me, but that’s not what I want to apologize for -- I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry for keeping things from you. I used to think I did it because otherwise you’d get angry and yell, but I know better, now. Anger I can handle. Anger I’m used to. But the worst feeling in the world was seeing disappointment when you looked at me. 

Once you started to be disappointed, it was always just a matter of time before you left. Sometimes I deserved that, but sometimes I didn’t. And I guess I just wanted you to know I’m a better man than you thought I’d be. I wish you cared enough about me to find that out before I died (no doubt in some fittingly heroic fashion -- I am a Navy fighter pilot, after all). 

So I’m sorry. And I hope you’ll leave a stuffed bear on my grave -- but only if you win it for me at a carnival.

Love,  
Logan


	3. Deployment Two:  October 9, 2014

**October 9, 2014**

Trina--

I hope you don’t ever read this letter, but if I’m not around to pester you anymore, I want you to know that I’m proud of you for going to rehab. I’m sorry I couldn’t stick around for the duration of your program. 

Though I guess if you’re reading this, I can’t do much for you anymore regardless of where you are in the program. Just know that I would have helped if I could. And also that whatever amends they tell you to make to me, I didn’t need you to say it. As for the stuff about Aaron, I don’t think you believed me when I told you this, but I accept your apology. Really. I need you to believe that and stop carrying the guilt around. None of it was your fault or my fault.

I’m really looking forward to burning this letter after I visit you for some post-rehab, post-deployment lemonade. If I can’t make it, have a lemonade for me, okay, sis?

Your brother,  
Logan

 

**October 9, 2014**

Dick--

I guess if you’re reading this, you already know you need to surf enough killer waves for the both of us from now on. I need to thank you for having my back for a lot of years. I know you thought I was crazy to join up, but you still drove me to the airport when I left for OCS. I appreciate the hell out of that, Dick. Also appreciated -- your offer to turn around and drive to Tijuana so I could escape the draft. I can’t tell you how reassuring that was -- kind of like a little proof point that at least one thing in my life would stay the same even if the rest was changing. 

Speaking of change, I know you said you wanted to buy the beachhouse from me, but I figured it would make more sense to just leave it to you in my will for the interim. Just in case. I mean, I have every intention of collecting a cool $2.5M from you when I get back. But if I don’t make it and you inherit the house, do me a favor and do something good with $1M, at least. Surfboards for the underprivileged -- whatever works for you.

I’m really sorry if my death means another person disappeared from your life. Believe me, dude, I know exactly how that feels, and I wouldn’t do that to you if I could help it. Thanks for everything.

Hasta luego,  
Logan

 

**October 9, 2014**

Hey, kid--

I know you said you’d kill me if I died, but I’ve got some bad news for you: you’re apparently a little too late for that. 

I’m pretty sure you know that, of the two of us, you were the actual grown up for the first couple years we knew each other (and thanks for that, sincerely) but now it’s my turn. College is a hell of a lot of fun, but don’t lose sight of the fact that the fun and the parties and the new friends aren’t the point. You need to figure out what happens next. You’re gonna kick ass at whatever you decide to do.

If I don’t make it back, Carrie knows about our deal. If and only if you pass all your classes, she’ll get you and your friends into I Heart Radio, and she’ll make sure the hotel and flights are taken care of. At least try to catch a decent band there this time, even if you’re only doing it because your dear departed quasi-big brother begged you to from beyond the grave (c’mon, you gotta give me one last guilt trip). Seriously, kid -- you need to kick your embarrassing boy band habit and start listening to real music. Ask Dick to send you the external drive with all my music so you can learn what actual talent sounds like.

Don’t ever forget what you promised me: you never put your drink down at a party. 

Your unrelated yet overprotective big brother,  
Logan

 

**October 9, 2014**

Dear Carrie--

Damn, I hope you don’t ever need to read this. 

I know you hate a lot of this Navy stuff, but it’s tradition for everyone on the boat to write these (depressing) just in case letters, so that if the worst happens, our loved ones have one last message. I’m a pretty terrible writer, though, so I apologize in advance for not writing you the letter you deserve.

I’m so fucking happy I let Dick drag me to your LA show. (Yes, drag. You know how I feel about the fucking Viper Room -- it’s a shitty, pretentious place full of lapdogs and hangers-on.) The atmosphere was predictably terrible, but ten minutes into our conversation I didn’t give a shit. I’m not sure whether I’m sad we didn’t really know each other very well in high school, or if I’m glad you missed out on the massive clusterfuck that was my life back then. Thanks for giving me a shot even though you saw me crash and burn repeatedly as a teenager -- I’m a big believer in second chances.

And not just because of our awful first date. I mean, at the very least it’s a good story now, even if the “mild” food poisoning sucked then. I hope things like that will make you smile when you think of me. I hope I made you at least a little happy, because you’ve definitely brightened my life.

I’m sorry that we only had four months before this deployment, but if I don’t make it back, you have to believe me that these have been the best four months I’ve had in a very long time.

Your devoted punk-ass bitch,  
Logan


	4. Deployment Two:  December 24, 2014

**December 24, 2014**

Veronica--

It’s Christmas Eve here on this floating tin can I’ll be calling home for another 76 days, and I’m feeling nostalgic. This will probably seem pretty bizarre to you, strange Christmas fanatic that you are, but once I was old enough to tell my mom’s genuine laugh from her anesthetized giggle, Christmas wasn’t much fun for me. The dysfunctional Echolls clan only ever did Christmas-as-spectacle, so whenever I see pictures or hear stories of someone’s happy Christmas traditions, what I think about is you and your dad and those incredibly dopey hats. 

Actually, I’m pretty sure I remember you wearing an elf costume to school in 7th grade. Red-and-white striped tights and a short green skirt -- very short. Oh, yes, I remember that.

So Christmas is your favorite holiday, and as it turns out, you remain my favorite Christmas memory. Since I have Veronica Mars on my mind, I thought about our history and our silences, and wanted to fill in a couple of the blanks. And while I’m not sure this is really the kind of Christmas present you’d ever want, it’s all I can give you -- particularly considering that if you’re reading this, I’m no longer around to buy you a pony.

I’m sorry, by the way, that the first you’re hearing from me after eight years is this just-in-case-I-die-I-should-set-my-affairs-in-order letter. I hope you have enough nostalgia in your heart to accept this the way I mean it -- as an apology and a thank you.

I wrote you one of these letters during my first deployment, too. I don’t remember a lot of the details, but I know that I was a little rattled by my first real combat action and, well, pretty angry when I wrote it. Venting my spleen about the way we fell apart. So aside from all of the other reasons I’m happy I’m still alive, I’m really glad you didn’t have to read that. A lot of that anger was misguided, and you definitely didn’t deserve a tongue-lashing from beyond the grave. (I’m not sure what it says about my character that, even in this depressing letter to someone I haven’t spoken to in years, I am finding it very difficult to suppress the double entendres. Or single entendres, really -- I mean, “tongue-lashing”? I think memories of you bring that out in me, Veronica. And, yes, that’s a compliment.)

Anyway. I’ve been working on my anger issues. The Navy frowns on hotheads piloting their planes, and since I’m kind of proud of myself for getting here, I have no intention of screwing it up. You used to call me an arrogant jackass. I was definitely a jackass. You’ve probably figured out that most of the rest of it was a front (if you’ve thought about me at all, which… well, I guess assuming you have thought about me is its own form of arrogance?). I hated myself a lot, for a bunch of reasons, and it always felt like you could see all the worst parts of me, and that’s why you couldn’t ever really, fully love me.

Hard to be mad about that, though, since you were probably right to protect yourself from me and my trainwreck of a life. These days, I try to look back on the way I could never live up to your expectations as a reflection of your high opinion of my potential, as opposed to your low opinion of the guy I was. Gotta say -- I’m not sad that you can’t correct me if I’m wrong about that. Possible silver lining to this whole letters-from-the-great-beyond thing? 

I didn’t mean for this to be so long and rambling (and morbid?). I guess I didn’t realize how much I wanted to say to you. Or how difficult it would be to get past all of our unresolved stuff to get to the point.

The most important thing I want you to know is that I’ve been working to make amends for some of the terrible, selfish things I did. Specifically, I wanted to tell you about the Minerva Trust. 

There’s a lot of downtime on the boat, and as massive as this thing really is, it’s pretty hard to actually find time to yourself. You end up getting pretty close (too close, I’m sure) to the other people in your unit -- so in my case, the other pilots. One of my fellow pilots told a couple of us about being raped, and it was pretty rough. A lot of what she said -- the fallout, the way she handled things -- it resonated with me. And the lack of support, well, that was too fucking familiar. 

Did I ever tell you I called the police on Aaron once? Looking back as a grown man and not a thirteen-year-old who'd already had his nose broken twice, their response was almost comical. Some starfucking deputy showed up to tell my dad about my “practical joke.” Just as a courtesy, you understand -- you know how kids can be. Yeah. You can guess how that went over with Aaron. A dozen lashes and broken arm... I think? That might have been my fingers, actually -- hard to keep it all straight. Anyway, I learned my lesson. I kept my ungrateful fucking mouth shut, but I never stopped wanting someone to help me. Maybe someone would’ve if there’d been a crisis center with advocates for victims.

About four months before this deployment, I had my financial advisors establish the Minerva Trust to keep Neptune’s crisis center up and running. Given my responsibility for what happened to you (and given Aaron’s impressive resume of abuse), I could never put the Echolls name on a rape and abuse crisis center. And I would never, ever be so thoughtless as to name the fund after you, since your story is yours to tell or not tell. 

But you know me -- I never could resist a grand gesture, right? Minerva is the Roman goddess of wisdom and war, the female equivalent to Mars. 

The trust fund is named for you in the most respectful way I could manage, and I really hope you understand why I did that. It’s weird, time-bending logic, but I promise you that I was sorry until the day I died for the role I played at that party.

If you’re reading this, someone from the Minerva Trust should be contacting you. I’ve named you as one of the potential trustees in the event of my death, but the extent of your involvement is completely up to you. I trust your instincts, Veronica, particularly when it comes to helping people who’ve been dealt a shitty hand.

Please, please believe me that this is not why I created the Minerva Trust, or why I’m telling you about it now, but some small, irritatingly optimistic part of me hopes that if you are reading this and learning about what I’ve done with my life -- the kind of man I’ve become… I hope it makes you proud of me, at least a little. Because your influence is a large part of what got me headed in the right direction (yes, finally, after a bunch of false starts).

I apologize, Veronica. I hope your life has been exactly what you wanted, and that you’re happy and healthy. 

Goodbye,  
Logan


	5. Deployment Three:  February 2, 2016

**February 2, 2016**

Dear Carrie--

We just left San Diego, and I found a mostly private spot along the edge of the hanger deck. Standing there, just watching the city fade away, I had the strongest sense of you. And then out of nowhere, your death hit me. Hard.

I mean, I saw you in the bathtub. (I’ll never be able to forget seeing you in the bathtub.) I know you’re gone. But everything has been so fucked up and then so… I don’t know. I didn’t have five seconds to sit and really feel it and mourn you, and you deserve that. The fact that I hadn’t really lost it yet -- well, I was starting to think I was a pretty terrible person. I know we’ve been broken up a while, and I know that I loved you before we ended, but I didn’t like what it said about me that I just… accepted your death and moved on.

As much as this bout of sobbing blindsided me (and also sucked), I’m a little relieved that it hurts this much to know I’ll never see you again. That sounds terrible, I guess, but what I mean is -- I loved you, Carrie, and I’m devastated that you’re gone. So I guess this is the opposite of a just-in-case letter. A different kind of goodbye letter.

Carrie, I wish you’d let me help you. I wish you’d told me about Susan, and about what Cobb was doing to you. I could’ve helped. I could’ve tried, at least. I’m still so fucking mad at you for the past eight months of hell -- the drugs and the cheating. Mostly the drugs, because the woman I fell in love with disappeared into this shell of anger and depression and self-destructive behavior. I feel terrible for being mad even after you’re gone, but I guess it’s not really me being mad at you. It’s more that I used to think we could’ve been beautiful, Carrie, but we didn’t really get the chance to try.

I am so fucking grateful for that long weekend in Oregon, and all the nights we skipped the bullshit at the 09er and just got takeout from Crunchy’s, and even the stupid bickering over how to hook up the fucking TV to whatever new high-tech, unusable gadget you got. I can’t thank you enough for I Heart Radio - I know Heather will never forget it. Thanks for putting up with loud, silly, enthusiastic girls just because I asked you to. 

I’m sorry I didn’t make it to enough of your shows. I’m sorry my deployment took a big chunk out of the time we were able to spend together. I’m sorry for all the other stupid, thoughtless things I may have done that made things worse for you. 

Most of all, though, I’m sorry that you didn’t get to live to be some crazy 98-year-old grand dame with bright purple hair and an attitude. I’m sorry you didn’t ever write that perfect song. I’m sorry that we didn’t get to see the pyramids, or the giant tortoises on the Galapagos Islands. I would've loved to have seen more of the world with you.

I really did love you, Carrie, and I hope you’ve finally found your peace.

Goodbye.  
Logan


	6. Deployment Three:  February 7, 2016

**February 7, 2016**

Dear Trina--

I don’t know whether I should even be writing this to you, because I don’t know where you’ll be on the pendulum if you ever have to read it. I’m really scared something like this will be enough of a blow to knock you off the wagon again. That’s the last thing I want. 

But someone will probably be able to find you to tell you I died, so maybe this letter can be a little bit of… something to help you deal? Maybe something to hold on to, something to show you that I care about what happens to you. You can hold this and reread it and know that I would be there to drag your ass to rehab again and again if I could. I hope at least there’s enough left of the Trina I know to read this and think about what I’m saying. What I’ve been saying. 

We had shitty parents, the both of us. Your mom took the payoff and disappeared, my mom jumped off the Coronado Bridge, and our father was a piece of shit. And none of that was your fault. I only know some of the rest of it, of why you’re in so much pain, but Trina, I understand feeling like everyone leaves and that’s what you deserve. You know I understand how small and pathetic and worthless it makes you feel. I tried to drown that feeling out with truly excessive amounts of alcohol for a few years, so I really do understand the impulse. But, Trina, you can’t drown this out with oxy or whatever else you’ve tried. I’m nothing close to a hero, but maybe I can at least be proof enough for you that it can get better -- you can get to a place where you’re okay being you and living your life.

I hope you get there. I want more for you than a lifetime chasing the next high, and revolving boyfriend/dealers, and the occasional paparazzi shot of you high off your ass.

I know it’s hard as fuck to kick the habit, but you can do it. I believe in you, Trina. That’s all I was trying to say when you cut me off with your big leave-me-the-fuck-alone-little-brother speech. Which you probably don’t remember, actually, since you were emphatically and enthusiastically off the wagon then. 

I’m your brother, Trina. I’ve known you longer than anyone else. Please, please believe me when I tell you that you’re stronger than you think you are. You can do this. You have done this for months and months at a time. I know you can do it. I know you will do it.

I really, really hope you have the life you deserve, Trina. 

Love,  
Logan


	7. Deployment Three:  February 10, 2016

**February 10, 2016**

Dick--

My man, I wish I could be saying this to you in person, but the Rolling Stones told me a long time ago that we can’t always get what we want. (Though I gotta say -- I don’t believe them so much right now.) Please know that I will be eternally thankful to you for setting my reconciliation with Veronica in motion. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have called her and we wouldn’t have found our way back to each other. 

Yes, I know, your actual words were “Please, God, whatever you do, just don’t call Ronnie,” but you’re still the one that planted the idea in my head. So thanks! I am imagining the look on your face as I write this, and it brings me great joy. 

I know you two have your (valid) issues with each other, but you’d be the first one to admit that I’ve never truly gotten over her. Or, really, you’d yell at me for pining after her and tell me how much you just don’t get it. Well, I don’t get it either, man, but there’s nothing logical about loving someone. I haven’t felt this… at home in years, and I won’t ever forget your role in that.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I wanted to say thanks for your loyalty, particularly over the last few years. I know you can’t understand why I joined the Navy, but you’ve still got my back whenever I need you. I have one last favor to ask you, though -- if Trina starts using again, please let her know that I left her a trust fund accessible only for rehab expenses. I don’t want her to have any excuses not to try to stay sober, and I didn’t have a lot of options, so I named you as a trustee if I’m not around. I hope that’s not too much of an imposition, Dick, but if you could do this for me, I’d appreciate it. I know sobriety is an alien concept to you, and I also know Trina can be a bitch and asking you to deal with both of those things at the same time is a lot. But she’s my sister, which is why I know you'll understand that I have to ask. That's also how I know that you'll do it even though you don't want to. Seriously, thanks, man.

I hope your life is a never-ending series of massive waves and special brownies. See ya on the other side, dude.

Logan 

 

**February 10, 2016**

Heather--

So I guess I’m going to have to beg off of our semi-regularly scheduled gaming sessions. I have a confession to make: I know you haven’t been into games for a long time, and have been humoring me. Thanks for that, kid, but you’re off the hook.

I’m sorry that I’ll be missing your graduation. And I apologize that I can’t take you and Katie and Sharli to Iceland like we talked about, but I want you to go anyway. (God knows you’re the only person I’ve ever met whose dream is to go to Reykjavik and sleep in a fucking ice hotel.) You said that the Logan Echolls Academic Scholarship was the last time you’d accept money from me, but I think we both know you’re full of shit, because (1) you’ve made these same empty threats about once every six months, and (2) you know you won’t be able to resist the Logan Echolls Memorial Travel Fund. I mean, it’s already all set up in your name (my lawyers will fill you in), so you basically can’t refuse. I did it and it’s done, so you’ll just have to accept this last gift from me.

Seriously, Heather, I want more than anything for you to keep your adventurous optimism, okay? Life has a way of knocking you around. An as much as you sunny optimists can annoy the living shit out of the rest of us, I will admit you do help the rest of us mopey Martins keep on keeping on. (Oh, yes, I remember you incessantly calling me mopey Martin, and I guess I’m finally ready to forgive you for that alliterative nightmare.)

So go to your crazy ice hotel, or to Morocco, or to Rome. Hell, go all those places. I want you to have the best, happiest life imaginable, kid.

Just don’t forget the promises you made to me, okay? About you and your friends keeping an eye on each other, keeping your drink under your control -- all of that. I know you want to roll your eyes at me right now, but I’ve got nearly a decade on you, and I think giving overbearing advice is what big brothers are supposed to do. And since this is my last chance, you basically have no choice other than to accept my advice. Maybe I should add something new here -- never bring your credit card into a casino. Or even better: don't gamble at casinos -- the house always wins.

If you’re feeling generous and want to do something else for your dearly departed, well, I might have an idea. Before… whatever happened to me happened, I was cheerfully imagining introducing you and Veronica. I know, I know -- you met her a million years ago (and had a massive, instantaneous girlcrush on her. No judgment here, considering I’ve had massive, unrelenting crush on her for the better part of 20 years -- and you can just keep your old man jokes to yourself, kid). I think you and Veronica might hit it off as adults (don’t go crazy -- you just barely qualify). So, Heather, if I’m gone -- please keep an eye on Veronica for me.

I love you, kid.  
Logan

 

**February 10, 2016**

Dear Mr. Mars--

I would much rather have had the opportunity to prove to you with my actions that I’ve outgrown a lot of the behavior that used to concern you, but if you’re reading this, well, a letter like this is my only remaining option. Since I can’t show you that I’m a decent, responsible person these days, I’ll have to try to convince you this way.

I won’t try to excuse or explain away my behavior as a teenager -- not just after Lilly died, I mean all of it. The disrespect, the binge drinking, the constant fights. I wasn’t a good person, but I’m trying to be one now. 

I’m not really sure what the police academy is like, but we enlisted types tend to think of cops as our brothers in arms, so I assume you experienced the same kind of hell that officer candidate school was for me. It was the first time in my life that the money and this damn name didn't give me a free pass -- or at least a leg up on everyone else. At OCS, I had to earn my place in the unit on my own merit. And since structure and discipline and accountability weren’t really instilled in me during my formative years, getting through those 12 weeks was a challenge. But I made it, and I finally grew up, and I need you to know that my time in the Navy has made me a better, stronger man.

Still nowhere near good enough for your daughter -- I’m sure we agree on that. But I’ve been trying my damnedest. I love her, Mr. Mars. I have for years and years. If I don’t make it back to her, please don’t ever let her doubt that.

I hope this isn’t overstepping, but if the worst has happened, could you please make sure any funeral is private and low-key? Whatever Veronica decides is fine with me, I just don’t want glossy, fake retrospectives on Access Hollywood using footage of Veronica.

Respectfully,  
Logan Echolls


	8. Deployment Three:  March 14, 2016

**March 14, 2016**  


Veronica--

I’ve started and stopped this letter at least ten times since we shipped out. I don’t know what my problem is -- I’ve written a dozen of these just-in-case letters since my first deployment. I’ve even written a couple to you, when I wanted to be able to apologize to you and thank you in case I never saw you again before I died. Let me just state the obvious: I’m so fucking glad I lived long enough for us to reconcile, Veronica, even if we only ended up having a couple weeks together.

But I want years with you, Veronica. I want vacations in tiny cabins with so much togetherness that we drive each other batshit crazy. I want to introduce you to my adopted kid sister, Heather. I want to drag you to Fleet Week and pompously explain every single kind of knot we use on these ships. I want you to talk dirty to me with all those geeky Latin phrases you learned in law school. I want you to see me flying my plane, because I’m good at it and I think you’d be proud of me. I want you to take me on a stakeout, but an unimportant one so that I can do my level best to distract you (and I think we both know I would be successful). I want to drag you to open houses, and fight about whether you’ll agree to live with me in a beach house if I buy it, and then buy it anyway because I was always going to. And you’ll agree to live with me because you were always going to. Then I want to torch this fucking letter in our brand new, high-end grill right before your dad and Wallace and Mac come by for a housewarming barbeque. And after they leave, I want to hold your hand and sit on the beach and just be together.

Damn, this is getting maudlin. I’m sorry. I don’t know why this letter is so hard to write. 

I think maybe it’s that all the other just-in-case letters I’ve written have felt like superstition -- like the letter was me watching the pot to make sure it’ll never boil… and somehow my death is from boiling water in this metaphor? That’s terrible. I should start this whole letter over (again). Even thousands of miles away, you leave my brain scrambled, Veronica. In the best possible way.

But this letter to you -- acknowledging the non-zero chance of my death while I’m out here -- it kind of feels like tempting fate. Because we only had two weeks and I want our future. I want a life with you, and I want to hear all of your stories and tell you mine. And all of what I want to say to you, I want to say. I want us to talk about how we went wrong as kids just to make sure we don’t do it again -- old rhythms and all that. But I want to discuss that. I don’t want you to cry over my awful attempts to express myself in writing. 

Except, fuck it -- I should’ve said this before I left: I love you. I don’t think I ever stopped. I don’t think I could ever stop.

I’m pretty sure you know that already, but if you’re reading this letter, I’m really sorry for not actually saying it out loud before I died.

In fact, if you’re reading this, I’m so fucking sorry for breaking my promise. It took us too long to find our way back to each other for me to up and die on you, but that’s the only thing that could keep me from coming back to you, Veronica. If there’s an afterlife (that doesn’t involve hellfire or Dante’s frozen circles), I’ll come back to you in any way I can. Although that kinda sounds like a terrible Nicholas Sparks movie, or that I’m threatening ghostly stalking, and that’s not at all what I mean.

I just mean -- if I can’t make it back to you on this mortal plane, I’ll be waiting for you with celestial bells on when you join me, many, many years from now. (I really hope that we end up in the same place for eternity, and that place isn’t filled with ice and hellfire. And if you didn’t smile just now in expectation of a Game of Thrones joke, then you just don’t know me at all.)

But, Veronica, if that’s the way this plays out (and I pray to God it’s not -- two weeks could never be enough of you), I want you to promise me you’ll live life and do all the stuff we would’ve done together. Promise me you’ll surf at least occasionally (despite how terrible you are at it), and that you’ll let Mac and Wallace keep you grounded and back you up when you need it, and that you’ll tell your dad how much of a badass he is (and tell him I said thanks for raising one hell of a daughter). Promise me you’ll adopt some woebegone pit bull and walk him on Dog Beach in your ass-kicking boots. Promise me that you’ll live the life you chose, the life you want for yourself. 

Promise me that you’ll think of me sometimes, but -- live, Veronica, if I can’t. 

And I don’t want you to think you left anything unsaid. I know you love me. I could feel it every time you touched me. I love you, too, Veronica. 

Yours always,  
Logan

**Author's Note:**

> Note: 
> 
> (1) the timeline for these three deployments is as logical as I could make it within the constraints of reality and the movie's bizarre, bizarre timeline.
> 
> (2) though it's a bit confusing, I guess, Trina is adopted by Aaron (and, presumably, a first wife), and becomes Lynn's stepdaughter. Logan's references to their father are to their shared childhood with Aaron, and NOT a contradiction of the prom baby/adoption canon.


End file.
